


Not quite home

by Taeyn



Series: echo, I will not talk with thee [3]
Category: Dublin Murder Squad Series - Tana French, The Likeness - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, accidental meetings, tipsiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeyn/pseuds/Taeyn
Summary: It’s Christmas Eve and Justin is back in Dublin, coming out to his family having gone horribly wrong. He won’t call the others, they’d have figured it out all too quick. Instead, he has every intention of spending the night heartbroken and alone. But, like most of Justin’s plans- that isn’t what happened.





	

I think it would have been easier if I was upset. Or lonely. Or utterly, blind-spittingly furious. The truth was, I was just hideously embarrassed, and wanted nothing more than to get through the night without crying, throwing up, or calling the others. Given the hundred-quid bottle of whiskey and the fact I’d been booted from Belfast before the dips even came out, you can see why my hopes for meeting such lofty goals weren’t high.

The first two glasses went down alright- I think my throat was already numb from the walk over. The third made my eyes water and my nose run a little, and when I tried to push-through, I just ended up coughing and spluttering and feeling completely pathetic. The ridiculous thing is, at that point I remember being glad my father wasn’t around to see me. And I’d no sooner realised the irony of that particular sentiment when my eyes started stinging all over again, and I could hear these awful, shuddering sobs, before I even noticed it was _me_ making that sound.

As I said. Pathetic.

I’m not sure exactly when my shoes went back on, or the several mismatched layers of corduroy and fleece. But somewhere in between I’d decided that if I was going to do something appallingly self-pitying that Christmas Eve, I would rather it involve a lot of aimless wandering, biting cold and likelihood of getting lost, than sitting around and waiting for the world to change. For me, it simply couldn't.

-

The streets were busy- last minute Christmas shopping always brings out the madness- and I’d wrapped my scarf over the lower half of my face so no one had to feel sorry for me. The bloodshot eyes I couldn’t do much about, but with half the city swapping between one pub and another, for once I probably fit in. And what were the chances of bumping into anyone who recognised me anyhow. Most of my classmates were penniless as it was, wrangling extra hours for the holiday overtime. No. The only people I’d have given the shirt off my back not to run into this evening would be tucked away in Abby’s flat, warm and cosy and-

“Justin? Justin!”

I kept walking. I knew exactly who’s shout it was, and I kept my head down and my fists clenched in my pockets, hoping he was that bit less sure about me.

“Justin!”

Rafe’s hand caught me on the shoulder, his tone tripping from surprise to concern. I spun around, defeated, trying to dredge some half-hearted attempt at humour from whatever was left of my dignity.

Rafe got there first.

“Smashing time with the folks, huh?”

He raised an eyebrow, the sad, crooked smile filling in the blanks. I could’ve nodded, shrugged, cursed, anything I needed to feel better; and I knew that was why he had thrown me the lifeline. God, I could have even kept silent, and all he would’ve done is stood by my side. The mere fact that it only took a single glance for Rafe to understand, in all entirety, all I ever needed to say about that night- it reached inside me and ripped out everything that ever mattered on the way. The screaming, the slurs, my father’s face, awkward and empty and sorry. The moment I knew he was ashamed. Rafe saw me at the exact moment when I lost my grip, the second I realised the freefall was every bit as terrifying as I imagined.

“I don’t have any folks,” I blurted, drunk and teary and beyond pretending I didn’t care. “Not anymore.”

It was so melodramatic that I’m surprised I didn’t crack us both up there and then. I almost expected it to start snowing that very instant, compounding my sorrow into some horrific storm that would send us running for the nearest abandoned graveyard, wolves howling in the distance. Instead, in true Dublin style, the worst that happened was someone accidentally whacking Rafe with an armful of Marks and Spencer carrybags, him stumbling and the stranger growling a few choice phrases about us blocking the sidewalk. Rafe’s hand was still at my shoulder.

“Well fuck,” he muttered. “Shall we send them a fond farewell?”

And just like that, it was the beginning. Rafe ducked into the nearest Molloys and came back with the nicest vodka ten quid can buy. And in the time it had taken him to crack the seal, down half the contents and throw me a _we’re-in-this-together-whether-you-like-it-or-not_ sort of grin, I knew that I was no longer falling. I had landed, here, back at Trinity, with my best friends. And that was exactly where I was supposed to be.

“-’Comm’on. There’s a limit to how messy this can get in Grafton Street, and I’m already well close to it.”

Rafe offered a squeeze at my elbow, though in truth, I think it was half for balance. That time we did laugh, and for me it was sheer, aching relief. Rafe jerked his head in the direction he came, occasionally veering into me as we dodged pedestrians and split the liquor and talked a mile a minute about absolutely nothing I can recall. It was a walk that ended at the foot of Trinity Old Library, with two takeaway cups of coffee that we had no recollection of buying and Rafe spread-eagled on the cobblestones, pointing out constellations I didn’t think existed.

“Sit up here beside?” I patted the step next to me, smiling as he kept tracing his finger through the sky. “Or at least button your coat. You’ll catch your death.”

“Okay, but that has _got_ to be a chariot racer. There. Between the dippy thing and the other dippy thing. If you’re telling me you can’t see a whopping four-horse chariot-”

“Rafe, right now, I can barely even see _you_ ,” I laughed, taking off my glasses to wipe them on my cardigan. I poked myself in the eye trying to get them back on, and everything was still just as blurry.

“I’m taking a photo. We’re going to look at this tomorrow and see if I wasn’t dead righ-”

His mobile slipped between his fingers, clattering loudly to the ground and sending us into a fit of giggles. It only got worse as he held up the screen, and I saw the picture had turned out exactly as I expected- a clear and crystallised shot of solid black.

“Oh gosh,” I grinned. “Don’t forget to tag me.”

“Famous last words,” Rafe winked, flipping the phone back around and pretending to capture my woebegone flail of horror. “Kidding, kidding…  Jesus _fuck_ , what on earth did I order in this coffee?”

I was mid-way through a slurp of mine when he said it, and we both almost choked as I gave an unexpected snort, Rafe making googly-eyes at what turned out to be a gingerbread-orange Frappuccino. A few more sips and we deduced mine was a cherry-caramel latte. Our slightly-more-trolleyed alter egos apparently have a whimsical sense of humour.

“I’ll swap you,” I sniffled, having predictably forgotten my handkerchief. “You’re not a big gingerbread fan.”

“Ah, but tonight I am,” Rafe declared, fishing out a strawfull of whipped cream and popping it into his mouth. “And may it never be said that we don’t live fast and dangerously. Cheers.”

He held out his paper cup and tapped it into mine, then we took a big gulp, squinting as we managed to swallow.

“Save the rest for later?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, and we both exhaled in time.

I eased my spine against the wooden doors, legs out in front, and Rafe shuffled back to join me. It was a surprisingly comfortable spot, compared to my empty flat. And all of a sudden, that thought was all it took. I was right back at Belfast Central, waving hullo to my father and considering how he never quite knew how to greet me, instead mumbling about how he’d cooked Yorkshire puddings for Christmas. More than all the venom and hysteria, it was those stupid puddings, which I knew my dad wouldn’t eat because he didn’t even _like_ them- that finally made me lose it. I cried the whole story into Rafe’s jacket. Not the one from tonight, the one as far back as I could remember, when mum had first taught me how to make them. And how I missed her. I missed her so, so much.

“I know,” Rafe kept murmuring, pressing me tight against him every time my shoulders jerked. “It’s not the bad stuff- the bad stuff is fucking easy. It’s the one or two good times, that just make you think-”

He didn’t need to finish. We could both hear it clearer than day.

_That this is what it could have been like._

“I’m messing up your coat,” I said miserably, wishing I was more of an Abby in these sort of situations. I had seen her cry once, whilst we walked arm-in-arm through the French renaissance exhibition, and it was more beautiful and tragic than all of the paintings combined. This was closer to a scene from Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_ , no wailing or twitching spared. I shared the analogy with Rafe, who eased back just far enough to give me a huge grin.

“That’s one of my favourites though,” he said. “Bloody hell, I even saw the stage production.”

“Student art-alliance?” I hiccupped, trying to mop myself up with my scarf.

“Back in London. National Theatre. Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller and the works.”

“Yikes,” I mumbled, trying to smile. “Fancy.”

He kept an arm around my shoulders while I did my best attempt at steeling myself, deep breaths and glaring into the distance and all. Rafe lit us both a cigarette, and didn’t even say a word when I started coughing my lungs out. _Small_ inhales. I could never quite get that right.

“What do you think of parasols?” Rafe said unexpectedly, flicking me a curious glance as if our whole evening hinged on it.

“Pardon?” I blinked, guessing I’d misheard. “What do I think of _umbrellas_?”

“Pretty much- less waterproof, more morbid black lace. Edwardian era. Strong and serious. You know the type.” Rafe’s mouth pulled at the corner, and he tipped his satchel out on the steps between us. “Think she’ll like it?”

I ran my fingertips over the crackled market-street paper, the conversation folding into place as I imagined Abby’s face on opening it.

“I know she will,” I whispered. My windpipe was all tangled up again, but it was a different sort of ache. It was the kind I never wanted to let me go.

“Temple Bar Night Market,” Rafe nodded, a worn authenticity card peeking out with the receipt. “I even found something for Daniel.”

My gaze moved to the smaller object, half-tucked in an envelope. I caught it as it slipped into my hand, heavy and distinct.

“My goodness,” I breathed, holding it up to the light. “Rafe, this looks so _real_.”

He took another look, and I gathered he’d suspected much the same. Weighing in the centre of my palm was a cast iron skeleton key. At its bow were four symmetrical loops, crossed and woven to a snare. The bit-teeth followed an invisible pattern, perfectly shaped around a series of grooves and crosses. Whatever it had unlocked had no doubt rotted several centuries ago, and for some reason that thought chilled me worse than the cold. Maybe secrets always have.

“High Middle Ages, I’d say,” Rafe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Enough clues for Daniel to take a guess at, anyway.”

“It’s brilliant,” I told him, my voice holding steady for the first time that night. “Brilliant and lovely and completely wonderful, and they’ll both be so very pleased.”

“Well, you’ll be joining now, so we’ll find out tomorrow,” Rafe laughed, getting to his feet as I shivered without meaning to. “But tonight’s mission just involves peeling pricetags, gaudy cellophane and a fuckload of stickytape. My place or yours?”

I stared blankly, not sure if I could bring myself to tell him I couldn’t bear to relive this night with the others. I knew he’d get it- sullenly, perhaps- but it would make sense to him. For now there was only the question, his palm outstretched to help me up, and the grin that told me everything was going to be okay.

“Yours, please,” I managed, so thankful that I barely heard it. I cleared my throat. The streetlamps followed us home.

“So what did you get Lexie anyhow?” I said after a while. Rafe shot me a glance, and for a second I thought he was about to say he didn’t. But then he paused, looked me straight in the eye, dead solemn, and said-

“A cactus.”

I started laughing then- that trembling, ever-so-slightly delirious laughter that only happens after you’ve been dreadfully upset, and leaves you warm and consumed and altogether spent. I can still see him as he smiled, and we forgot about the wrapping, and his fingers threaded through mine. And so for everything and all I turned out to be. That night was what it could have been like.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! :3 I love this book and these characters to bits, and any comments, fandom discussion or kudos is always adored and utterly appreciated! <3 <3


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